


Beyond The Cheap Colored Lights

by chicafrom3



Category: Lost
Genre: Denial, Despair, Drug Addiction, Gen, Music, Rejection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-05
Updated: 2006-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:46:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicafrom3/pseuds/chicafrom3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One song, glory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond The Cheap Colored Lights

Charlie pulled the hood of his sweatshirt down, ran his hands through his hair anxiously. “Sawyer?”

“Well, well, well, if it ain’t the newest most-hated-on-the-island.” Sawyer smirked. “What can I do ya for, Kurt?”

He swallowed nervously. “Paper. I need, uh…I need paper, mate.”

“Paper. What for?”

He bit back a comment about _what do you think_. “I just need some paper, okay? It’s not a big deal.”

Sawyer opened his mouth, clearly about to snark like hell, and then something behind his eyes changed. “Yeah, okay,” he said instead. “Paper.” He turned, rummaged through one of his many stashes, and produced a cheap spiral notebook, which he handed to Charlie.

“Thanks, mate,” he mumbled, pulled his hoodie up again, and walked back down the beach towards his own distant shelter.

He couldn’t look at Claire as he passed her and Aaron’s shelter.

That would change soon, he promised himself.

It had to.

It took him a few moments to find a pencil among his scattered belongings. Then he immediately started writing.

One song. That was all he needed.

Just one little song.

 

He had hatch duty that afternoon, so he took his guitar, his pencil, and the notebook with him. Hurley looked at him bemusedly but didn’t say anything.

Hurley hadn’t said anything to him since the fire.

That would change soon, Charlie promised himself.

In between the alarm going off, he wrote and erased, strummed different chords, rewrote and tore pages out and fought the urge to cry in frustration when the notes wouldn’t come like he wanted them to.

He was pretty sure Hurley thought he was high.

Well, he’d see, Charlie promised himself. He’d write the perfect song, one perfect little song, and they’d all see that he wasn’t a useless junkie, he could make the right choices and stay clean, he could save them all.

He’d kill for a piano right about now.

When hatch duty ended and Locke and Sayid came in to relieve them, his hands hurt and the song remained unwritten.

But it would be.

It was all he needed.

Just one little song.

He could earn their respect back.

 

Except for hatch duty, he avoided everyone.

It wasn’t that hard. They were avoiding him too.

He stayed in his shelter, away from the rest of the castaways, and wrote. He stopped eating and strummed his guitar. He stopped sleeping and tore pages out of the notebook.

By now, it was stained with sand and seawater and mud and blood and ink, and it was his lifeline.

He just needed to write the perfect song, and he could fix it. Claire would see he wasn’t the bad guy. Jack would see that he wasn’t useless.

They would see.

They had to see.

Just one great song.

But the notes all sounded wrong and sour and he couldn’t get his guitar to tune.

He strummed a disconsolate chord. “I’m writing one great song before I…”

“Charlie?”

He blew out an annoyed breath. “Hi, Jack.”

Jack crouched in front of him. “What are you doing, Charlie?”

“I’m writing – ”

“No, Charlie. What are you doing? You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping, you haven’t spoken to anyone in days, and you’re wearing a black sweatshirt in ninety-degree weather.”

Charlie stared at him blankly.

“So what are you doing?”

“I’m writing,” he said softly, “just one perfect song…”

Jack sighed. “Charlie…”

He tried a G chord.

“Look, nobody’s holding a grudge or anything–”

Charlie laughed without humor. Of course people were holding grudges. The whole camp hated him. Charlie the druggie.

He’d fix it.

One song…to redeem his empty life.

Jack was saying something, but Charlie wasn’t listening anymore. He picked up his pencil and scribbled down in the notebook

  
_time flies…time dies_   


“Charlie!” Jack said sharply, and Charlie looked up, blinking. “At least drink something, okay? I don’t want you dehydrating out here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Brit said absently. “Drink.” He’d found it—inspiration, muse, his song.

 

 _“…pessimists are closet idealists…”_

Mr. Eko paused when he heard the twanging guitar chords.

 _“…once disappointed…”_

“Hello, Charlie,” he said pleasantly, and the young man looked up, stopping his music. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be? It’s almost written. It’s almost done. It’s almost perfect.”

Eko blinked. Then said, “What was that you were singing? ‘Pessimists are…’”

“‘Closet idealists once disappointed’. Why?”

“No reason.” He nodded slowly, reflecting. “You are writing a song?”

“Yes.” He pushed his hood back. “I need it to be perfect. I need to show them…”

“Show them what?”

“That I’m not useless.” Charlie stared down at the guitar strings. “I’m not some stupid sodding junkie. I can do this. I can write this song.”

Eko nodded again, thoughtful. “And this is how you are going to save yourself.”

“I guess so, mate.”

He considered Charlie and the guitar. “Then I wish you well.” And he turned and left.

Behind him, the chords started up again.

 

Sun found Charlie sitting on the sand, in his new spot far away from the rest of the camp, cradling his guitar in his lap, staring at a battered, stained dime store notebook.

“Charlie?” she asked uncertainly.

He didn’t look up.

She knelt beside him and looked at the page in the open notebook. It was a mess of scrawled words, unevenly drawn notes, at least half scribbled out with thick black lines.

She couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

“Charlie?”

“It’s finished,” he said numbly. “My song. It’s written. It’s done.”

“Charlie, are you okay?” His lack of emotion was disturbing her.

He looked at her, eyes red-rimmed and deadened. “I don’t know,” he said plainly.

She didn’t know what to tell him. She wanted to comfort him and she wanted to berate him. She wanted to tell him that Claire was mad at him and Claire was afraid of him, to hurt him for what he had done. She wanted to tell him that Claire didn’t hate him, Claire might even forgive him some distant day, to give him hope. She didn’t know what to tell him.

It was easiest to pretend that her limited English was the barrier.

“You should eat,” she settled on.

He shook his head. “It’s done,” he repeated. “It’s done.”

 

Claire looked up from Aaron when she heard Sun clear her throat.

Most of the castaways had gathered around the signal fire as night set. It was a warm, communal feeling.

Charlie stepped into the flickering light.

He looked awful, pale and shaky and blank. His guitar was slung on his back.

“Charlie,” Eko rumbled from nearby. “Are you…?”

“My song’s written,” he said simply.

“Then we would like to hear it.” The look Eko shot around the group silenced any protests they might have had.

Claire held Aaron tighter and said nothing.

Charlie sat down and pulled his guitar into his arms, held it carefully, positioning his hands on the strings, and began to play.

The E string broke.


End file.
